


Exhale

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drabble, Gen, Smoking, i didn't mean to make a smoke break so dreary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-29
Updated: 2013-05-29
Packaged: 2017-12-13 07:32:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/821654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco liked himself least when he was blowing smoke rings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exhale

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize for this fish paste. My muse demanded a smoke break, and this drabble was all I got for my efforts.

Draco liked himself least when he was blowing smoke rings.

 

 

Earliest memory: his mother in a black bathrobe smoking a cigar. It was too big for her fingers but she held it like a rose stem she’d crush if she weren’t careful. _Would you like to see a trick?_

He liked tricks, especially hers, so he nodded over the cushions of the loveseat. She turned to face him, then hollowed her cheeks and blew seven consecutive smoke rings, each smaller than the last. From where he was sitting it look liked a smoky painting of the dartboard his father kept by the cupboard. 

He said so. His mother agreed.

Pursing her lips pinhole tight, she blew out quickly. A thin arrow of smoke shot out, piercing all seven rings through their core and lingered. _Bullseye_ , she’d said, winking at him as he peeked over the fluffy white cushions. And he’d laughed, because yes, yes it really was like the dartboard by the cupboard and he liked this trick. Liked it very much.

 

 

Her hair had been the color those cushions then. Now it was the murky grey of smoke exhaled too slowly, and just as thin. And Draco could feel his own turning early.

He took a long drag from his cigarette, hollowed his cheeks, and blew seven consecutive rings. Or rather he blew five, the last two more like broken eggs than anything. He’d never been good at it, and no amount of practice remedied the fact. Draco wasted three packs on the effort once, and even after that his rings were still too loose, too wispy, unraveled too quickly to be enjoyed. 

It was no good, he decided. Whatever lived on her tongue didn’t live on his. 

He took another drag and blew out an arrow instead, aiming it through an imagined sequence of neat, tight rings. "Bullseye."

He smashed the burning end of his cigarette into the heel of his boot and tossed it aside. It wasn't much of a trick at all when he did it. 

He didn't like it.


End file.
